


A Queen in Thedas

by Jealouswayward



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Christian Character, Christianity, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fluff and Humor, Love/Hate, M/M, Modern Boy in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13379802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jealouswayward/pseuds/Jealouswayward
Summary: Queen Elizabeth III is at the height of her power, she has taken the title Empress regnant of India. A tittle not held since her ancestor Queen Victoria. However, after arriving at Balmoral, she is sucked into a portal into the land of Thedas. She now fights for her life against people who want her dead for simply existing and the glowing green mark on her hand that marks her touched by a Prophet known as Andraste.





	A Queen in Thedas

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic inspired by the modern girl in Thedas stories. I thought it would be interesting instead of having a normal girl, I spice it up a bit and make her a monarch of the modern world.  
> Rewrite: Instead of a third person view, I went with the first person hoping that it would make my writing clearer. The story will switch between Elizabeth and Cullen every other or few chapters.

_Elizabeth Pov_

I step in front of my bedroom mirror, examining my appearance for flaws. My voluminous raven hair is pulled back into a large bun with a section of my hair and bangs curled to give my hair a vintage look. My lips are painted the colour of a red rose, my eyes accentuated with ebony eyeliner, and cheeks done up in light blush contouring. I turn to my outfit, a bespoke sweetheart neckline dress, layered over white flowing fabric that falls short to the floor. My gown is embroidered all over with the Tudor rose, shamrock, and thistle in gold. Even on my slightly transparent capped sleeves that extend halfway down my forearm. I pick up a fur stole, wrapping it around me to complete my outfit, also to cover up the embarrassing sweetheart neckline. I would have to talk to the tailor about our two very different definitions of female modesty.

Upon my head glistens Alexandra's Kokoshnik Tiara, fastened above my curled bangs and of hair with many elastic bands and ribbons. Around my neck rests the Coronation necklace and it's matching earrings hang from my ears. Extending past the Coronation necklace is a long pearl necklace that exceeds slightly past my bosom. Fastened at the end of the pearl necklace is cross made up of diamonds that resemble oak leaves, with a small picture locket of a loved one fastened in centre of the cross. On my left middle finger, I wear the Sapphire and Ruby sovereign coronation ring, something I had to beg and politically manuver my way around just to get permission to wear. For the ring is usually on display in the Tower as an artifact. Finally, on my right ring finger, I wear a simple gold band with three diamonds set into it. The one in the middle bigger than the two beside it. It was given to me by a dead loved one.

One might take three things away from my costly appearance: I'm an extremely rich woman, that I am an influential woman, and that I am obviously royalty. All three are as true as the sky is blue. I am Queen-Empress Elizabeth the Third of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland, Empress of India, and so forth until one gets so bored of my many titles one might fall asleep. One must not worry, happened once to me after a warm meal with a long dinner party with my parliament. Though one might find it strange to learn a British sovereign is Head of State over India again. Six years ago I would have called it an outrage, however, shortly after my seventeenth birthday, my father's government worked out a deal with India.

I didn't pay much attention to what it entailed, for my father died before Parliament ratified India back into our union. Leaving me, a girl barely past her seventeenth birthday to the throne. Of course, my mother took over as regent until my eighteenth birthday, it was a terrible time for me which I do try not to dwell on or try to remember. The only thing that brought me out of my depressing state was my coronation, which it's anniversary arrives in a few short months. Another celebration I had to plan for, great.

“Are you done?," My mother, Victoria, calls from over my shoulder "We must not keep the royal car waiting!"  
Ah yes, I cannot possibly forget the reason why I am getting dressed up for this evening. I am to go on holiday to Balmoral Castle, then attend a party hosted by the Scottish Prime Minister. My government thinks I need the fresh Scottish air to clear my head. It's an excuse, things between Scotland and England have soured and my government needs me to make an appearance to fix it. Basically attend public gatherings, wave, and talk to normal people. Show them that I care, which I do. The party I can handle, spending time with the extended family of the House of Windsor is another story. Older aunts and uncles telling me how I should present myself as the Queen. Younger cousins running around a screaming, not listening and breaking antiques that I have to pay for. My own personal Hellhole.

My mother joins my image in the spacious mirror, bringing me out of my troubled thoughts. My young looks contrast with her slightly ageing and dainty figure. The only that can compare us is our raven hair, brown eyes, and heart-shaped faces. In other matters of mental comparisons, we are different. My mother is an extreme introvert, however, I am split down the middle of extrovert and introvert. Which confuses everyone when I can be shy one minute and outgoing an hour later. She smiles and places her hand over her mouth, holding back some overly dramatic tears. Her hands rest on my shoulders and she leans in next to my right ear.

"Your father would have been so proud of the woman you've become," She whispers. I rest my hand on her right, clasping gently. I bask in her presence and motherly affection, one that I take when I can from her. We don't the most exactly healthy mother and daughter relationship, once I was born she's always attentive to my siblings' needs first rather than mine. I have no doubt she viewed me as the reminder that my father would die and I would take over as monarch. More couldn't be so when my father passed in his sleep, she refused to look at me or acknowledge my ascension to the throne. Someway of coping with my father's death, by declaring I wouldn't be Queen. It took forcing her to take the oath as regent, until my eighteenth birthday, and another tragedy for her to snap out of her childish behaviour.

"I'm sure he would have-"

"Are you done yet, sister?!," My brother Albert calls, before entering the room, he's a spitting image of a younger version of my father, especially in a black suit "We don't want to keep Great-grandmother waiting!"

"Let her wait, it's not like she's dying," My sister Margaret screams back and rushes into my room with brush and compact in hand, "I'm not done with my make-up!"

"Why would she care if you look like a clown!," Albert mocks back, giving her a cocky grin. He also has my father's blatant sarcasm, which always got him into tremendous trouble. Within seconds, my two ginger twin siblings fight in the background of the mirror. How wonderful, hours before I attempt to keep Scotland in the United Kingdom and my siblings decide to fight. Albert pulls on Margaret's tight purple dress away from him. Margaret reacts by reaching for his floppy hair and pulls with all her might. Albert does the same with her hair, I roll my eyes. I watch in the mirror as a music stand filled with my opera vocal warm-ups and a knitted sweater I've been working on are flung across the room, along with my bed sheets and drapes. My mother and I share a look of disdain. She leaves my side to stop them when Margaret suddenly knees Albert in the groin. With a yelp, my tall and broad-shouldered brother is brought to his knees with tears running down his cheeks. I should sympathize, but he should have known better than provoking Margaret.

"Honestly, would you both please act like you're both twenty-one!," My mother assists Albert to the seat at the foot of my bed while rubbing the back of his neck, "Albert, mind your sister. Margaret, please, I thought we discussed it's inappropriate to kick men in," She stops for a moment to find the appropriate words for a woman of her rank and status, "in their most sensitive area."

My mother blushes at her innocent description of male genitalia, but Margaret gives my mother a sour look and goes further than what my mother said, "They're called balls mother! Testicles!"

I groan, leave it to Margaret.

"Yes and we all know your experience and frequent encounters with balls, sister," My brother counts his fingers as Margaret glares at him as if she's going to gut him, "What was it, the twentieth time, last week you took one in your mouth?"

My mother gasps in horror, before looking over at Margaret. My sister is clearly seething with rage at his comment. Dear God, please help us all.

"Wonder if the Queen knows about your esca-,"

Her reaction is immediate. Margaret leaps on top of him and starts swinging, my mother backs away with her hands raised unwillingly to get involved in their fighting. I cringe, I really don't want to call the royal guard again. Last time they fought, five were sent home with scratches and broken fingers. Meaning I would be left to pay for any injuries done to the royal guard, not again. I turn to them, hands folded, and a regal stature. I glare at them as I approach their childish fighting, reaching down and grabbing them both by their ears. Earning a painful hiss from the both of them, before pulling them apart. I pray I am not struck or seriously injured in the crossfire.

"Lilibet!," Margaret cries, using my nickname coined by our father.

"Marge!," I mock in her nickname, also coined by our father.

"Let me go," Albert pulls away from my iron grip, "It wasn't my fault she went all mental!"

I sigh, "I will let go once both of you promise to not act like children."

Silence, the second worse thing that they do. When they give each other the silent treatment one can always feel the tension in the room and it makes a person uncomfortable. That and there is the unknowing when one breaks their silence and fighting between them breaks out. I'm still apologizing to the Prime minister for Albert and Margaret disrupting the State Opening of last year's Parliament on live television. Margaret and Albert look at one another in disgust. Both cross their arms immediately and look the opposite way of each other. I can feel the blood rush to my face and my right eyes starting to twitch. This would simply not do for a brief holiday in Balmoral, not at all. A low growl escapes my lips and I tighten my grip on their ears. When that doesn't suffice I dig the nail of my thumb slightly into their earlobes. This earns a whine from the both of them. My mother grumbles at me in disapproval.

"We agree," They cry and look up at me in defeat.

"Good," I release them and grab my white purse, "Albert, you'll be in my car. Margaret, you'll be in mother's. Behave!"

I walk out through the wide doorway and pass by paintings of the Kings and Queens of ancient and medieval England in the golden trimmed hallway. Opening my purse I check my valuables: My fully charged iPhone, charger and battery pack are tuck safely to the side with my small handgun with two extra mags. A Queen must be ready to defend herself, especially after that assassination attempt in Northern Ireland. The rest is make-up, feminine products, and a razor with shaving cream in a case of emergency.

"Margaret," Albert screams, followed closely by my mother screaming and crashing sounds from my room. I cringe and quicken the pacing of my steps, avoiding the new fight. Their fighting must have been heard all throughout the Palace because large male bearded servants rush past me to my bedroom. Their husky voices join in the argument, following more crashing sounds. Good Lord of all places to fight it had to be my room?! If I am to go back and intervene again we'll definitely be late for our scheduled arrival in Scotland. That and someone might get seriously injured this time, judging from the amount of shrieking and throwing of objects against my wall, it would be me. The little buggers, if the monarch still had the power to put people under house arrest or sent to the Tower, I would.

As cruel as that sound, I don't hate them, I love my siblings. However, most times they needed a good whipping back into the royal protocol rather than receive sisterly affection. Usually, it's Margaret that starts a verbal or physical altercation, but sometimes it's Albert too. They're a little alike in some ways, even if they try to frequently deny it, but drastically different in others. Albert paints, Margaret hates art. Albert can fix things, Margaret usually destroys things with parties. Albert hates loud parties, Margaret loves a large cantankerous party. But they have one definite thing in common: They both speak their mind, with no thought of the consequences. Just Margaret can take things a little too far. Last week I had to haul her away from drunkenly flirting with the Prime minister. Who is almost two times her age, but that didn't stop her from calling him a Silver fox in front of the British Parliament and foreign dignitaries.

In truth, It's sad to say out of the two of them Albert is my favourite, despite him frequently getting on my nerves. Most likely because he doesn't hate me simply because I am Queen-Empress, he never wanted to be monarch and plans on staying away from royal duties as often as possible in the coming years. Margaret, on the other hand, hates me for it and tries everything in her power to overshadow me. When I wear something flattering to my small hour-glass frame, she goes even further by commissioning a dress with richer fabric or to wear a corset to allude to everyone she has an hourglass waist despite her petite frame. She desires my titles, the jewels the Queen can only use, and the respect I have gained from my people. She can't stand that one day she would become a minor royal when I marry and have children, which by the grace of God will be put off for a while.

I approach the main staircase leading down to the front exit. Lights shine from the cars outside through the tall windows into the dimly light palace foyer. Revealing more famous paintings of English, Scottish, and Irish kings and heroes of old. My gaze meets with a woman of advanced age and small stature, wearing a blue dress and hat, hunched slightly over with a cane. My great-grandmother, or Nana as we called her: Queen Katherine Elizabeth, Consort of my late great-grandfather King William VIII. Most would remember her as Kate Middleton, the young woman that stole the young Prince William's heart and the world's with her charm and looks. Her wrinkled eyes gleam happily as I descend the marble staircase, her shrivelled lips turn into a smile. I return her merry smile with my own.

"A little trouble upstairs, Lilibet?," She chuckles, "Brother and sister couldn't get along for a few moments?"

"Oh you know, Margaret and Albert, one says something wrong and the other criticizes," I groan, massaging my temple, "Then the gates of Hell breaks loose and we all suffer for it."

Nana laughs slightly,"Eventually, you're going to be upset when they stop doing that to each other, It'll mean they've finally matured in adults."

"I have the strangest feeling I never will," I breath out, keeping them under control would surely lower my blood pressure in the future, "How have things been with you, I heard you fell?"

"Yes, but I'm alive aren't I?" She jokes as she most often did about these things, "Not in the grave yet."

"That's not what I meant."

"Lilibet, I am an old-old woman," She sighs, "I don't do much during the week in fear that I'll break a hip and when I do have the bravery to get up, I fall. One of advanced age doesn't pay attention to their well being anymore, they've lived life fully, you'll be in my shoes before you know it."

"Ah, well I am hoping I shall have some good times before that," Or at least I hope, I knew the Second Queen Elizabeth was active and happy till the end of her life, along with her husband Prince Philip. Hopefully, I have their longevity of life and good health running in my genes.

"I'm sure you will, the only ones that aren't happy with their age the ones that try to turn back the hands of time, only to be disappointed they do not budge for anyone," She chuckles. Before our dreadful conversation about ageing can continue, a soft bark sounds out. A tan and white fluffy blur speeds past my vision on the stairs. My Corgi, my precious Duchess, runs and jumps up on my leg. Scooping her up, I do a little twirl and pet her newly washed coat.  
"Oh my sweet angel," I coo at her like a baby, rubbing under her soft chin, "Ready to frolic on the green Scottish grasses and hunt ducks?"

I do admit it is a little stereotypical that Corgis are my favourite type of dogs, years have passed since Elizabeth II and her own Corgis scuffled about the palace. One might make an observation that I keep her to connect myself with the second Elizabethan age to further my popularity. They would be false, she is special to me in a deeper way. My father gave her to me as present on my seventeenth birthday, the last present he gifted me before he died. She was my only solace in the days following his death, we never parted sides until my coronation. Which have caused some rumours that I treat her like a human child, ridiculous? Just a story the press stirred up to gain money. Trying to shame a girl for cherishing the last gift her dying father gave to her.

"Who's a good puppy?," I turn to baby talk," Are you a good puppy?"

She barks happily and moves in to lick my face, my ladies in waiting just set my makeup and they wouldn't be happy with an added coat of dog slobber on my face. I quickly push her head away, she whimpers at me, giving me those sad Corgi eyes like I took away her favourite bone. I must stay strong, must- I set her down, hoping to end this temptation. She stands on her hind legs and howls up at me, pawing at my dress furiously as a way of telling me she wanted to be picked up again. I raise a finger and scold, she yawns and lays down on my white heels. Of course, she is, she always did this when she wanted attention. As long as she laid on my feet, I wasn't going anywhere.

I move down to remove her from my feet, however, screaming and thunderous crashes stop me in my tracks. I look back at the staircase. Albert rushes down it, covering his head with a large silver platter, followed behind him is a royally pissed off Margaret, no pun intended, clutching a vase in her left hand. She shouts obscenities at him as she prepares to launch it at her target. Oh good Lord no. I feel the blood drain from my face, what she holds a vase from the Prince Regency era of the United Kingdom, a vase that is over two-hundred years old. A vase if broken: Would have the entire Historical London society storming the gates. Seems a little much, but when my grandfather almost ruined a portrait of Queen Victoria. History lovers petitioned it's removal from Buckingham Palace to save it from royal romps.

"Margaret!," I shriek in horror, "That's-"

She hurls it at Albert, I respond immediately. I move forward and stumble over Duchess, causing her to whelp in pain. I apologize to her under my breath and as fast as I can in heels, I run and leap like an American football player. Albert dodges the vase and me by a few inches. He gasps in surprise, I catch the early nineteenth century vase mid-air and fall on my back on the hard marble floor with a painfull groan. People may think just because I'm a freaking Queen my life is easy, but oh are they so wrong. Not long after my save, the servants that ran past me earlier quickly come to my aid and help me up, the third servant takes the vase from my hand and leaves to return it to its proper resting place. With several assurances that I'm alright and the patting down of my evening gown, the servants leave me and my stern Queenly glare falls upon Margaret.

"Um," She begins, "Sorry?"

"That was a Regency Vase," I hiss, "Practically one of the only ones left that aren't in a museum and you decided to throw it like a soccer ball, what were you thinking?!"

"Somebody's gonna get it," Albert sings under his breath.

"Albert, shut up or that someone will be you also," I growl.

He motions his left hand in a zipping motion over his mouth, then gives a cocky smile, He puts his hand under his chin and jutting out his entire arm towards me. Is that suppose to mean something? Margaret giggles under her breath before stifling it. If I remember my trip to Italy I was greeted with that gesture by unhappy Catholics and Fascists at the Vatican... Oh.... He just flipped me off, in Italian. This night was destined to be doomed before it was even planned.

"Get in the car, we'll talk later," I command.

"Get in the car, we'll talk later," He mocks in high feminine voice, before walking gaily away. I sigh, I'm considering to run at him and backhand him. I turn my foul expression back to Margaret who's attempting to stifle her giggling at Albert's behaviour, oh the occasions they could only agree with each other was mocking me or some other person who was poor enough to simply exist for their mockery. But more precisely me.

"I didn't-," She begins her apology with giggling lips, not taking the situation seriously as usual,"I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"That's your problem, you never think!," little harsh but that's how my father always got through to Albert and Margaret, seems to do the trick for her giggling has ceased, "What do you think would happen if that display happened in public?! It would be in every newspaper the next morning! You need to grow up and stop acting like a foolish girl!"

I stop as I watch my mother descend the stairs, with a look of disapproval directed at me. Of now of all times, you defend your youngest it has to be now? I silence myself and look at Margaret. She begins to sniffle, a trick that always got her out of trouble with father, me on the other hand, not so much. I turn swiftly and scoop up Duchess, cradling her in my arms like a baby. This trip is going to be disastrous. But first, Albert being bludgeon will lighten my night a little.

* * *

"I hate you!" Margaret screams at me as she races upstairs, slamming the door to her room. I stay put in Balmoral's foyer, we had just gotten into an argument about her choice of a boyfriend. A conversation that arose in the car with Albert, he showed me photos of her and her lover holding one another. How he took the photos of them from above on the terrace, I dare not ask. I confronted Margaret about it in front of the castle, at first she declared it was a lie. Then I pressed her buttons and everything came pouring out in a hot steamy mess.

So it seems my brother was not wrong about her knowing the most sensitive part of men. For she declared he was the best man she's ever had and I would be lucky just for him to look at me. Didn't really need that information, but I think I'll pass. However, it's not that I have no issue with her dating a man, it's the fact that her lover of choice is an Irish man a decade older than her and a reported drunk. Not only that he's a former IRA member. Not that I have a problem with the IRA, it's the face he's radical member. The man has been in jail for attempted bombing attacks, the man even placed a dud bomb under my carriage when I visited Northern Ireland. The reason why I carry a bloody gun for protection! As her sister and head of the royal family, It was only just that I end her relationship. Which she did not take well. I would call her a whore of all things, but a whore wouldn't have been this stupid in her choice of a man.

"You'll say that now!," I yell back, "But you'll thank me later!"

"You're just mad because you're all alone and will die alone!" She screeches back. Cheap Margaret, real cheap.

"Better to have no one than a convicted terrorist," I retort, shaking off the hateful comment, "I'm doubling the guard around Balmoral, don't even think about sneaking out and seeing him, do you hear?!"

Silence follows, then a high pitched scream that could break church windows. Sounds of things smashing together come from Margaret's room, more things I have to replace, great. Nana grunts and takes a seat on a cushioned bench, placing her tired face into her hands. Albert runs behind me to assist our mother out of her car. Then more silence, a rock song blares from the landing. A vintage song that was banned during the reign of the Second Elizabeth blares throughout the castle:

_"God save the queen_

_The fascist regime_

_They made you a moron_

_A potential H bomb_

_God save the queen_

_She's not a human being_

_and There's no future_

_And England's dreaming"_

I'm going to kill her, how dare she play that filth at my estate. I thought I had that blocked from any major or minor royal purchasing! She knows how much I despise that vulgar song. I'm going to grab sword hanging in front of the Ancient Stuart house crest and shish kabob her to the wall, I'd be doing everyone a favour. Besides, It's not like I can be tried for murder, parliament would have to amend the constitution for that to happen.

"I thought that was banned?!," I make my way towards the stairs with clenched fists,"Why you little-"

Mother rushes past me, pushing me back, a little hard for a mother to her own daughter. She gives me a deadly glare before running up the staircase. She turns to look at me when she reaches the top. It is not a look of undying motherly love, instead, a look one gives when they see a girl from a Knocking House. Ah and there is the second half of my mother, I was wondering when I would see her tonight.

"You maybe Queen regnant," She hisses, "But your sister needs to be able to make her own decisions in life."  
She runs and calls out Margaret's name. I cannot help but roll my eyes at my mother, she always did try to take her side, always trying to make her feel like she is important. And she would be if anyone found out about this! The press would follow her every move and his. Not just their every move, but mine, I already have enough press on me as it is, I don't need more. Not only that but it seems my mother has forgotten that he is an accused terrorist and a drunk! My decision has saved the royal family terrible press coverage and constitutional crisis.

"Well that could've gone better," Albert chuckles, "She'll get over it eventually, Lilibet."

"No, she won't," Great-grandmother wheezes, taking out her handkerchief and covering her mouth, "Your Great-Great-Great Grandmother's sister never got over her ended the relationship with Peter Townsend, she blamed her sister for the rest of her life, look where that got her."

"True, Nana," Albert takes a seat next to her, "But that was like what, The 1950s or something? No to mention this is a completely different Princess Margaret."

She chuckles, "I don't know from I've been told about her your sister and she certainly behaves somewhat similar but don't mind your great-grandmother, it was only a precaution."

"That was different," I rub my aching calf, "Peter Townsend was a divorcee, not a domestic terrorist or a drunk."

"Accused domestic terrorist," Albert corrects, "But yes the bloke is definitely a drunk and bad news."

"What's the difference, he's a nightmare," I groan, "Either one and the press will hound the royal family so much we'd go into hiding."

"You worry too much, sister," Albert pats my shoulder, "Come, I say this terrible evening needs to be lightened up, how about a drink?"

He's right, I do need to relax and - Oh no, I know where this was going. Last time I drank with him I got mad drunk, I almost caused a war with Spain by throwing up on the Spanish ambassador's shoes, nearly caused Northern Ireland to return to Ireland, and almost banished my mother from my household when she tried taking my whiskey on the rocks away. Though that last one might have been the best choice considering the events of this evening. Finally, the events of that particular embarrassing evening ended with me thinking I could jump off my bed and fly by flapping my arms like a chicken, of course, I had pillows laying in the floor near the foot of the bed, still broke my ankle. He raises an eyebrow and extends his hand, I need to make something up quick.

"I can't, I have to wait till our items arrive in the moving truck," I groan and reach down, taking off my painful high heels, "I have to witness them moving the Imperial State crown into Balmoral, then verify the guards-"

"Alright, queen business," Albert rushes away, "Wouldn't want to interfere!"

Nice save, Lilibet, a lame excuse but a true one. I had almost forgotten I had to witness our items being brought in. Albert's stomping feet die out down the hall. Now it's just me, my great-grandmother, Duchess, and the profound silence that is between us. She gives a side-eyed glance, I pretend not to notice. She then hums to herself and messes with some articles of her clothing, I give her a strange look as slowly scratch behind Duchess' ears. She continues this for several moments before looking up at me, smiling, with a plea in her eyes. My expression turns cold, for I know what she's going to say.

"No," I answer dryly, my mind would not be changed on the matter.

"Lilibet, the child needs to figure out life for herself," She wraps her hands around mine, "Let the child grow to find herself."

"I agree she can, she can grow and find herself, just not with accused domestic terrorists or any other person with a criminal record," I stand and rub my aching head, "Or drinking problems, what you are asking me to do is out of the question."

"She's your sister, at least-," I pull my hands away and give her a spiteful look, her face falls as she sighs and raises her hands in defeat, "But you are also her Queen and head of this household, as all ways The Crown must win in this situation."

She takes her cane and props herself up before walking to the chairlift, "Just remember, the choices you make for her in her youth: She will never forget and may resent you for the rest of her life."

She gives me a look of dread as her chair slowly moves up the railing, mumbling under her breath as if I had hurt her feelings. My heart flutters as grief washes over me. Damn Queen Katherine, the old great-grandmother upset routine always made me crumble. She stops at the top of the stairs, glances in my direction, before leaving. No doubt she's heading to Margaret's room to smooth things over with her.

I move around in my seat, trying to find some comfort. I knew from day one this job wouldn't be easy. I knew I would have to make hard choices that did not find favour with my family. But even if I did support the relationship as Elizabeth Alexandra Victoria Mary Diana, my other person, Elizabeth Regina, would be forced to end it. Not many people realize that is the toll of being a monarch. Parts of me are a sister and daughter. The parts that make up The Crown, Queen and Empress are me also. I am fragments of souls combined into one being, fragments that do battle constantly with one another. Always, unyielding in their constant battle to gain control of the being they pose. One is pulled in many directions of thoughts and feelings, it's torture.

The result of the infighting is this: The Crown must win. must always win. If it loses, I put personal indulgences before duty. When I do that, the people will question my position as monarch. Then so forth and so forth, till the monarchy is abolished. My family and I will be kicked out of our estates and unto the streets.  
I lay my head against the rocky castle wall before letting out a whimper of frustration. I should be having fun, going out at parties, going to university, etc.. Not the Head of State, the Commander in Chief, the Head of the Anglican church, or even royalty. For God's sake, I shouldn't even be worrying about my sister's love life! The stress is agonizing and stays with me at all times. In truth, the only things I enjoy about my position are the jewels and dresses, that's it. What young girl wouldn't? If I was normal I wouldn't have to have dominion over the older member of my family or end my sibling's relationships when they get too controversial. I could marry anyone I want, without an approval from a government body or committee. Not a member of this gilded cage know as the British Crown, a victim of the lives and relationships it ruins.

Bright lights shine through the ancient window seals and the sound of a large truck coming to a halt fills the foyer. The movers are here early, wonderful, best not make them wait. I prop myself up and walk out into the brisk Scottish air. Duchess follows closely behind me, barking at the men in the darkness. The two men, one the royal jeweller dressed in a black suit and the other guard in red uniform with an AR-15 strapped to his back exit the truck to meet me. Both do a slight bow and tip of their hats. I open my lips to speak, however, I am interrupted.

"How is your Majesty's evening?," The guard breaths out. He looks young, perhaps my age, his accent maybe washed down but I can tell it's a hard Scottish accent. The royal jeweller, Sir Charles, an older man with silver hair in his sixties, nudges the younger man and shushes him. He blushes in realizing his mistake in royal protocol when greeting the monarch, I was to always speak first. Even if meeting celebrities, quite embarrassing if I don't know their name.

I chuckle, "It's quite alright Sir Charles, tell me young man are you new?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am," He stutters out, "Just finished advance training about a month ago."

I examine him closer, he is a handsome young man, blonde and fit. His broad shoulders and muscular thighs threaten to rip open his tight uniform. He looks up at me with his gorgeous blue eyes, which are the colour of the Scottish sea. What I wouldn't give to- My face burns when I realize we've been looking into each other's eyes for a few moments now. The young man's face turns red like he's going to pass out as he shakes, curses to my silly infatuations, I scared the poor angel.

"Hm, what's this? Some handsome young man about to sweep you off your feet?," Albert's voice snickers behind me. Oh God, why now of all times?! I spin around in embarrassment and rage, no doubt my a face is the shade of a double-decker bus.

"No-no," I stammer, "Well I mean I wouldn't oppose- Wait I mean-go back to drinking Albert!"

Albert snickers at my wrong choice of words, "Don't worry, Just taking interest in furthering the royal line of succession, do make sure you put a ring on him before giving Margaret and I little nieces and nephews."

I hear the royal jeweller gasp and grumble in disapproval, then I hear a thud behind me. Oh no, I turn back to the gentlemen. The guard lays face first on the ground, unresponsive to Sir Charles' shouting. Great, as if this evening couldn't have gotten any worse. Sir Charles quickly turns him over on his back and starts fanning his face with his pro folio. The poor angel wheezes out in response. Albert howls in laughter as Sir Charles furiously shake the guard awake, thankfully he comes to after a minute of being violently shaken. I feel my face and ears burn like I've gotten back from a bad trip from Malta.

"Would her majesty mind if I take-," Sir Charles begins.

"Permission granted, please get ang- him a drink if you must, use anything in the castle as you see fit" I cut him off. Sir Charles props the guard on his feet and helps him past me, I turn my face in embarrassment. I feel Albert's presence approaching me, I spin and slap him across his right cheeks. My brother grunts and stumbles back onto his rump. He looks up at me, faces darkened with burning rage. However, I take a step back when his expression changes into a malevolent wolfish grin.

"Oh come on, Lilibet," He stands on his feet, "A poor prince can't have fun with the soldiers?"

He steps closer, placing his hands on my forearms. He leans in, his breath reeks of whiskey and coke. I cover my nose, shielding it from the terrible stench of whiskey. Leave it to Albert to be completely drunk in the first thirty minutes of arriving on holiday, not to mention extended family would be arriving in thirty minutes. Another thing for them to criticize. Duchess growls at him, he glares and growls back at her in a slur.

"I can't talk to you when you're like this," I walk to the back of the armoured truck, Albert follows quickly on my heels. I approach its magnetic keypad and punch in the code: 1066. The year William the Conqueror invaded England from Normandy. The metal garage doors roll open, revealing rows of colourful dress and shimmering jewels and crowns of old in the back. To right is Albert's items, suits, some sun panel generators, speakers, and painting of the Scottish landscape he's been working on. To the right are Margaret's and my mother's items, a mixture of fairy tales like dresses and glimmering tiaras I lent them. And in the middle of bulletproof glass: The Imperial State crown, practically glowing in all its glory. I begin to take a step onto the truck, then the door slams inches from my foot.

"Albert!," I whip around and meet his cheeky smile. He starts leaning in again. What is he playing at? I go to lean up against the armoured truck, I feel it's hard metal meet my furry stole. Then, in an instant, nothing. I stumble back into nothingness, almost breaking my heels in the process. Albert reaches forward sluggishly and helps me regain my footing. A green light illuminates everything around me. I turn swiftly, the armoured jeweller truck is gone, replacing it is a collection of green light and mist rolling in together like an ocean current. Shining almost like a small star. Duchess whimpers and almost clings to my leg.

“W-what is that,” Albert stutters, moving to my side, “W-where is the-”

The light cuts him off by giving out a deafening shriek. I shield my ears, hoping to lessen the terrible pain to my eardrums. It's enough to alert the household, lights turn on in the castle's upper windows. Duchess howls and starts viciously barking at the light. Charles and the guard are out in seconds, only to be stopped in their tracks. The light convulses and shoots out lightning from its top and then the rock on Balmoral castle. The loose rocks plummet towards the ground in front of my rushing mother and sister.

"Ma'am, Sir!," Sir Charles shouts, "What happened, what is that?!"

"I don't-," The packed light lets out another screech and more lightning. Then illuminates the clouded sky by shooting green lightning into it. Everything seems to tremble at the light. The grass, the trees, the air, seems to take that it is a sign of the end. The guard takes out his gun and fires, the bullet makes contact and disappears in the mist. It responds with another screech and more lightning into the night sky. What the hell is this thing?!

"It's-it's a Banshee!," The guard screams before running and vaulting over the bushes. This thing is not the Banshee from Scottish legend, it fits more in the criteria of a wisp or something. The guard screams before tripping and falling flat on his face in the yard. I can't believe I found him attractive.

"Darlings, make your way over here!," My mother shrieks. My eyes don't leave the anomaly as I pull on Albert's sleeve, he responds by wrapping his trembling arm around my waist. Slowly, inch by inch, we make our way to the castle entrance. Duchess stays by my side in a protective stance.

The light lets out another shriek, it shutters and sends out lightning within a foot in front of Duchess. She yelps in surprise, quickly, I scoop her up and cradle her in my arms as she howls. I hear the light getting ready to strike again with another terrible shriek. Albert throws us to the ground and drops on top of me, covering me from harm. Lightning sounds and Albert's face contorts in pain. He spasms against me as he screams in pain, he was struck. I cry out and it is the last thing I do before light flashes before my eyes. My face and skin meet cold air, I feel myself plummet from the air towards... snow?! Where the hell is Balmoral?! I look around as I fall, endless mountain ranges, I scream. I pick up speed, the air rushes past my face before everything turns dark and muddled.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter is already in the works and will be in Cullen's perspective. Hopefully I can write him in character. Anyway thanks for reading, please leave a comment, and share!


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